Disrupt, Corrupt and Interrupt Me
by Artemis0simetrA
Summary: "He's standing opposite me, so close that I can feel the heat from his body. The knife in his hand presses sharply against my cheek." Why would someone give their heart to a psychopath...and what happens when they try to leave? JokerxHarley, BrucexSelina.
1. Chapter 1: Harley

_**DISCLAIMER:**__ All characters from the DC canon belong to DC, not me. This story is strictly not-for-profit. No copyright infringement is intended. If you have been living in a bush and are not familiar with the Christopher Nolan films, I would urge you to buy them (yes, buy them!) before reading._

Chapter contains mild references of a sexual nature.

**Harley**

Detective McCain rocks backward in his chair. To his left, Detective Hadley shifts in her seat. I take in her warm, lined brown face and tightly coiled greying hair. For a moment there is pure empathy in her eyes, and then it's gone. She looks down at her file on the table.

The police interrogation room is a cold, off-white box. One wall is a two-way mirror: I am absolutely certain that the room on the other side is packed with spectators. Commissioner Gordon will be there, and half the Gotham City Police Department - all eager to watch the freak show.

_Dr Quinzel, the psychiatrist who tried to cure the Joker. And ended up as crazy as him._

_The Joker's girl._

I stretch my arms above my head, arching my back and rolling my neck to relieve the tension. I let my head tilt slowly backwards, allowing my lips to open slightly. Through my half-lidded eyes I catch Detective McCain appreciating the pose. I'm fully aware that I'm drawing attention to my breasts under my tight red top. _Men._

Bored, I flop one arm across the table and sink my blonde head down to rest on it, letting out a throaty sigh. Blackness. _One second, two seconds. _I snap my head up and open my blue eyes wide to meet Detective McCain's gaze, giving him my most inviting doll-pout. He doesn't flush: instead there's a brief moment of indecision followed by a genuine amused grin. He knows the score - he knows women. Despite everything, I grin back. I decide I like them both.

Across from me, behind Detective Hadley's shoulder, is the camera. We've been recording for two days, but these Detectives are new. _Maybe they're taking it in shifts. _After all, it's not every day that an informant walks in and offers everything they need to put away the most dangerous man in Gotham - and half the mob. Keeping me talking must be high priority.

McCain keeps watching me with his amused grin, as his partner leans in to speak. They probably want to go over J's connections to different organised crime syndicates again. I've already given them names, dates and audio files. But I guess they don't want to take any chances. In case something _happens to me_ before the trials; they'll want it all on film.

I'm not prepared for what comes next.

"You say that you didn't have a... sexual relationship with the Joker." Hadley says, visibly pushing down her discomfort and embarrassment.

My face must have darkened, because the grin is gone from McCain's face. He inches back warily.

Determined, Hadley continues.

"Anything that could call into question the truth of what you've told us leaves an opening for the mob's lawyers. If you say you didn't, we'll accept that. But the jury will think it's strange that a man like the Joker kept you around when there was no..." She breaks off, finally looking embarrassed.

Idly I glance at the cheap ballpoint pen in her hand. I've killed a man with less. Killed men. But then I squash the darkness down and let out my breath, relaxing my muscles. I let my open-eyed little-girl look infuse my face. My voice comes out small and breathy. It occurs to me that the way my mood changes so rapidly may be making them nervous. Oh well. We can't change who we are - not really.

I light my cigarette slowly, inhaling deeply. My real voice, my old voice comes out now: low, even and focused. I let the little-girl look fall from my face.

"Once, maybe twice a year. If you can call it sex." My voice breaks on the last word, and I feel shame burning my cheeks.

The unspoken question hangs in the air.

I'll answer it. If I'm doing this, then I'm going to give it everything I have in me to give.

"It took J a long time to... get under my skin." I can't help the bubble of joy that pops up in my chest, lighting up my face as I remember.

It doesn't last.

"And when I was completely his, he didn't want me anymore."

The words taste sour to me. The pain must have been in my voice too: the look of deep empathy on Hadley's face is back.

The camera is silently recording. I take another drag of my cigarette.

And begin.

***Please review this chapter!* If you thought something didn't quite work, I would really love to know. :-)**

**Oh, and it may have dawned on you by now that Harley is pretty much batshit crazy...**


	2. Chapter 2: Bruce Wayne

_This chapter is (still) dedicated to Patrick Verona's Cougar. Thank you so much for the thoughtful reviews :-D_

**Bruce/Batman**

The heat of the summer day is draining away: the late afternoon sun that had been warming my back is fading. A breeze begins to stir through the city below, gently stroking the one exposed part of me. Underneath the cape and heavy layers of armour, that cool air on my jaw feels good.

It's getting darker.

I'm crouched over the skylight of the hotel meeting room, waiting. My calves and thighs are burning from the pose but I hold the position. Tuning out the pain.

_Almost time._

A voice crackles through my earpiece, replacing the feed from the meeting below. It's Jim.

"My team have a sighting on the roof. I need to confirm it's you before they open fire." says the Commissioner.

I know that this is costing him: he's uncomfortable with my being here. But Jim knows me well enough to trust there's a good reason behind my insistence.

I reply in a deadpan voice, low and gravelly:"You know anyone else who dresses like this?

For a split-second there's silence. There must be too much on Jim's mind for him to appreciate the joke.

Then: "Not since I married Barbara." he deadpans back.

A small, real smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. Jim is one of the few men in Gotham I can share a real joke with as Batman. Or as Bruce Wayne, come to think of it. The thought makes me even wearier.

"They're getting ready to move in. You have fifteen minutes." The Commissioner's voice cuts off abruptly.

I turn my attention back to the men below, as the feed of their conversation resumes in my earpiece. Higher-ups from most of the Gotham crime syndicates are here: the Italians, the Irish, the African-Americans, the Russians...others I don't recognise, out-of-towners. By tomorrow morning the strangers' biographies will be in my inbox. A wolfish grin spreads across my face: I have Oracle, the former Batgirl turned elite hacker, in my corner.

For the first time this afternoon, Mike Maroni speaks up, eliciting a mixture of curious and affronted looks from the others. And a low muttering from the men standing at the edges of the room. At twenty-eight he's younger than most of the delegates.

Unless they're among the select few who've been enjoying fat kick-backs from Mike's recent activity, they'll be wondering where he got the balls to put himself forward. I'm guessing most of the men assume he's a nobody - given a seat at the table out of respect for his family.

_Even gangsters hate nepotism._

I grin ruefully. For a second I feel a flash of empathy for the dark-haired, good-looking young man; thinking of my own experience at Wayne Enterprises. Then the impulse turns cold and my stomach twists. I remember why I'm here, and listen to Maroni speak.

"These freaks, they're bad for business. You know it, everyone knows it...come on people, wake up. They're putting on freaking costumes and shit and we're bending over to let them take us up the ass? To mess with our bottom line? Man, I shouldn't be the one saying this." He runs his eyes over the assembled men, his face showing disgust. Watching their reaction.

"Just telling it like I see it, no disrespect." He raises his hands up in mock-protest. His brings himself forward in his chair now, fixing his gaze intently on each of the men at the table.

"We gotta do something about this, people. We gotta take them out, all at once - before the word gets out. Batman, Two-Face, the other costumed pieces of shit...they're over." He leans back in his chair now, arms loosely folded.

Later I can wonder who put Maroni up to this. And what they've offered him in return.

A low _clunk _from the room below, as the computer-controlled doors lock shut. _Thank you Oracle._ The men nearest the doors start to shift uncomfortably, looking around them for the source of the noise.

I press the button on my wrist that will spread the wings of my cape out. The dark fabric snaps up under the electric current and billows outward, blocking the light of the setting sun. _Soon._

I let the noise from the earpiece and the traffic from the street below fade into the background. Focus. I reach inside me for that cold clarity, the calm flow that will allow me to effortlessly anticipate the movements of my opponents. To block/hit/block/disarm.

Underneath me, the men are becoming edgy. I stand up and my wings move smoothly across the skylight, blocking the crimson and orange sky from illuminating the room below.

Now one of them looks up. His eyes widen and his mouth opens. He points upward with fear in his eyes.

I have their attention.

_Now._

I step forward, falling through the skylight feet first. Shattering glass rains down around me. None of the shards pierce my kevlar.

This is what they'll remember when they think of the Batman: the shadow blocking the sun, the shattering skylight. The terrified shouts, the locked doors.

_A man they can kill. But a legend they can't. _

There is not one face below me that registers anything but shock or fear.

My feet touch the ground.

I block/hit/block/disarm. Anticipate. Hit again. And again. And again. It's beautiful, and it's terrible.

_This is what I live for._

The feeling of giving absolutely everything - inside a dance with my opponents I've spent my life preparing for. At peace inside the darkness I keep locked away. Letting the rage take over, flowing through me with absolute clarity of mind.

Eventually I push my way through the unconscious, handcuffed bodies encircling me. Towards Maroni. He's bright enough not to run, taking in the men cowering within arms reach of the locked doors. He faces me, mental gears clicking away. I continue to advance on him, growling, my breath ragged.

Wind from the broken skylight picks up dark folds of my cape: I feel the material flowing around me, fanning out. The sound of my breath is ragged and harsh in my ears. I reassess my earlier opinion of him – he does have balls. Maybe no-one put him up to his earlier speech.

My arm surges out and I grab him by his throat, using the grip to lift his body off the floor. Pressing hard enough to bruise. I deliver my message now, my voice low and menacing:

"Some things I will not tolerate."

I squeeze harder, feeling a spasm travel through him as his hands move upwards, vainly try to free his neck from my grip.

"Not in my city. Not ever. **Do you understand me?**"

Realisation dawns in his eyes. He understands.

I drop him without warning – he hits the ground, gasping for air.

My left hand presses the button on my belt, and my right arm shoots up above me. I hear the grapple catch on the frame of the broken skylight. Without taking my eyes off Maroni, I press the button again. A snap as the wire tightens. Swiftly I travel through the air, landing on the roof.

Below me Gordon's team burst in. Their original targets for tonight are waiting for them, bound. The bugs will have recorded everything. Prosecutions will follow from tonight. I hope. We all hope.

But it's the Batman that the men will remember.

* * *

**_Please review! Anonymous reviews are enabled - I really want to hear what you think :-). _**


	3. Chapter 3: Harley

***Warning* **This chapter contains JokerxHarley domestic violence, implied sexual assault and potentially triggering material for self-harmers. Though the purpose is to give clear insight into Harley's mind and Joker's Batman fixation, you may wish to skip to the next chapter.

It goes without saying that real-world domestic violence is neither sexy nor desirable, and should **never be accepted. **If you are are, or have been a victim of domestic violence, help is just a Google search away - please reach out for it. :-)

**Oh, and drunk driving isn't cool.** Even if your name is Harley Quinn :-P

* * *

"_I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like._

_And right now, it's a steel knife in my windpipe. I can't breathe, but I still fight while I can fight._

_As long as the wrong feels right, it's like I'm in flight._

_High off of love, drunk from my hate. It's like I'm huffing paint, and I love it. _

_The more I suffer, I suffocate._

_And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me. She fucking hates me, and I love it."_

_Eminem ft. Rhianna, Love The Way You Lie_

* * *

**Harley**

The woman in the mirror isn't me. She isn't Harleen Quinzel.

I take another swig of the triple-distilled lime vodka. Burning, followed by numbness in the back of my pharynx. Down my oesophagus. Past my gastro-oesphgaeal junction into my stomach. A warmth infuses my body, spreading outward from the fundus. I remember an old joke from university:

"_A medical education is like herpes – hard to get rid of, and you can't help passing it on."_

The woman in the mirror is wearing a flimsy, see-through red negligée. The whisper-thin crimson silk drapes over her curves invitingly. She might as well be wearing nothing – the negligée shows everything.

I pout at my reflection, giving myself my most wide-eyed, come-to-bed look. My eyes are a little unfocused, and my face is pink.

I let out a warm giggle as I notice the blood-red lipgloss is slightly smeared. I lick my lips – somehow I've picked up that habit from J. It tastes like fake watermelon.

_Damn_. I feel soberness creeping up on me and take another swig – this time I don't feel it going down. The glass bangs against my teeth. Lighting a cigarette, I smile at the blood-red marks on the filter. That shade of red makes me think of him.

I'm bored.

I don't know if you've seen the film Bonnie and Clyde? American Gangster? Goodfellas? Scarface? Oh, well. The point is that they only show the fun bits.

They don't show the other twenty-three-and-a-half hours of the day, when there's literally nothing to do.

Except wait. For a man to kick the plot into action.

_Hrrmphhh._

I put down my cigarette on the dresser top. Whomever's house this is will have more to worry about when they return than a few cigarette burns.

_Starting with the bodies in the basement - don't think about them. _

_Don't think about that, Harleen._

I squash down the guilt in the pit of my belly that clutches at me, and take another swig.

The woman in the mirror puts down the bottle and rests her hands on her hips, sticking her chest out. She bites her lip and allows her pupils to dilate, her voice husky and low. "Don't 'cha want to..." She half closes her lids, tracing the fingers of her left hand over her body invitingly.

The first time I saw J, he made my skin crawl. But now...now he freakin' drives me crazy. Maybe because he's the one man who's never tried anything.

I mean, yeah - he's tried to kill me.

But when it comes to the ah, pleasures of the flesh, he's always been weirdly chivalrous.

_Or disinterested. _

_Don't think like that, Harleen._

I pour out a glass, leave the bottle in the bedroom, and look for J.

He's in the dark kitchen, working on two laptops at once. Either he ignores me or he's really so absorbed in his work that he doesn't notice my presence. I glance over his shoulder: he's flicking between multiple views from different security cameras in central Gotham. Making notes on a pad: times, locations. Which security guards go for a cigarette break on the hour, which ones fall asleep on the job. I'm reminded of a spider at the centre of a web.

His body is hunched over the keyboard, the hard muscle straining under the fabric of his purple jacket. I would recognise the back of his head anywhere – the greasy, matted, dyed-green hair. His eyes flicker back and forth between the two screens, his dry tongue running across his chapped lips. Though his eyes are twitching convulsively, the muscles of his face are relaxed and slack. His dead, empty eyes reflect the light from the monitors.

I take a sip of lime vodka from the glass. I'm freakin' wasted.

I don't know why I want him so badly. I think that if he started telling me he loved me and that he was going to change... I'd lose interest.

I arch my back, displaying my breasts to their full advantage. The cool silk runs over my nipples, making me shiver.

He's still ignoring me.

We stay there for a while. Him absorbed in his work, me absorbed in him.

I inch closer, till I can feel the heat radiating from him. He's still hunched over the keyboards, occasionally letting out a _hmmprh, _or an _mmmm. _Or rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek. I want him so badly it makes me ache.

Another ten minutes pass. He still hasn't noticed me.

A warm wave of well-being hits me from the alcohol. I slide down onto his lap, a tingle washing over me as I feel the rough fabric of his suit against my bare skin. I lean my head into his chest, relaxing, inhaling his smell. Then I bring my face up to his. My hand runs along his thigh, towards his zipper.

"Don't cha' want to -"

I don't get a chance to finish.

Without taking his eyes off the screen he brings up his left hand to hit me solidly: hard across the face with a blunt _smack. _I fall to the tiled floor, the glass slipping from my hand.

It shatters.

The shards cut into the flesh of my right hand. I see the red liquid flowing from the wounds before I feel the pain. The blood that's trickled onto my skin is cooling rapidly.

I look up at the green-haired man hunched over the computers – he hasn't looked in my direction since he struck me.

I sit there for a while feeling the warm glow of the endorphins and the alcohol wash over me.

I don't know how long for.

Then soberness creeps up on me again, and I feel the sharp sting of the cuts.

He still hasn't looked at me.

And my mood flips. All of a sudden I'm so freaking angry with him I can barely breathe. I want to kill him. I want to strangle him till he's dead. I want to stick his stupid knife through his trachea. I want to see him bleed all over the freaking kitchen. I want to crush him till he begs me to -

A choking sob racks through my body, making me tremble on the floor.

"Bastard." I choke out, my mouth full of my tears. He doesn't seem to hear me.

I rise up to my hands and knees, my face distorted with anger.

"You don't know me." I say, my voice cracking with pain.

And all of a sudden, I know what I have to do.

I leave J on his own in the flickering light from the screens and head to the bedroom.

I shove my clothes and my beauty products into the suitcase, not caring if the liquids stain the fabric. I feel strong, empowered. I'm leaving. I'm going back to the real world.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pack, and for an instant it jars me into full sobriety.

I look like crap.

My eye make-up has run down my face in messy black streaks and my eyes are puffy and bloodshot. The straps of the negligee are hanging off my shoulders. There is nothing sexy or playful about my appearance.

I take in the ash-tray and the bottle of lime vodka. I remember how I used to feel superior when I walked past the smokers on my way to lectures: smug, knowing I would never be like them. I remember being asked to clerk a patient with alcoholic liver disease – the deep sympathy that I felt for him, tinged with the smugness that it would never be me.

The woman in the mirror isn't me. She can't be.

I'm ready to go home now.

He came in so quietly I didn't hear him. He's standing in the doorway, watching me as I study my reflection with contempt. He takes in the open suitcase and he starts to laugh, his eyes blinking rapidly in the bright light of the room. He looks euphoric, the happiest I've seen him in days.

He's bent over in the doorway, laughing so hard that he's almost choking. "Oh, Har-ley". He bends over again, lost in mirth.

Unbeknownst to him, he's acting exactly how I need him to. There is no way that I can kid myself – this pathetic excuse for a man clearly doesn't give two shits about me.

I stride past him towards the garage. I'm ready to leave. This time I'm serious.

He follows me.

As soon as I step through the doorway the cold hits me through my bare feet. I'm shivering in my negligée. My eyes are still blurred with tears - I can't even see where I'm walking. I stumble over the concrete as the chill makes my legs shake.

He's still laughing at me.

Through the tear-streaked scene I try to open the car door. I'm pressing the unlock button - but it isn't opening. With shaking hands I try to fit the point of the key into the lock.

It slides in and turns. The door opens: I'm going home.

Then I feel sharp pain as he yanks me back by my hair. I don't let go of the key, even as he grabs the hand that's holding it, shoving it in the open car door.

He slams the door shut, onto my fingers.

My hand goes limp; I drop the key onto the concrete floor.

In my drunken state, it takes a while for the pain to register. When it does I let out a guttural, animal like cry.

He pulls the door open a second time and slams it onto my fingers again. Distantly, I remember my orthopaedics rotation: how to recognise a compound fracture following a crush injury.

The green-haired man doesn't let his grip on my hair weaken. Instead he consolidates it, pulling me backwards towards him, burying his fingers deeply in my blonde hair.

Then he slams me down onto the bonnet of the car, face first.

I let the rage take over now. Squirming on my belly, turning around to face the Joker: I kick, scratch and bite. I taste the salty metallic tang of blood: I don't know if it's from my own mouth where he struck me, or from the bites I've inflicted on him. I feel like I want to rip him to pieces.

Now he's using his thighs to pin me against the car, preventing me from kicking. I scratch my nails along his smeared white make-up, drawing blood. The scars on his face look raw and pink in the fluorescent light of the garage.

"Har-ley. Oh, Har-ley." He's saying my name in a low, grating pitch alternating with a high sing-song. He's stressing the syllables in a way that makes the hair on my arms rise, the nape of my neck prickle.

I wrest my right leg out from under the weight of his thigh and kick him so hard that he stumbles backward.

Apparently, this is the most amusing thing that I've ever done; judging from the ecstatic laughter that's bubbling out from his mouth.

"Ooh, hah, ooh ha. Look at you g-o."

His full weight is on top of me now, his arms pinning my arms down. His hands are roughly pushing up the hem of the negligée - I can feel cold air on my belly. I feel exposed, with nothing covering my bottom half but my thin red panties. Every time I break free to pull down the fabric, he pulls it up again. His body against mine is making my skin burn.

The weight of him pins me to the bonnet of the car; his leg forces mine apart.

_I can't move my body._

I turn my head away from him, looking for an escape.

_There is none._

I close my eyes and let myself drift away to somewhere else.

_Crack._

He slams the back of my head down onto the metal bonnet, then holds my jaw roughly in his left hand, pulling me up onto my feet and bringing his face in close to mine.

"Har-ley. Har-ley. Come here. Look at me." He's holding my face. I keep my eyes shut tightly and try to turn my head away from him - but he's holding my chin too tightly for me to break away.

"Shhhh. Look at me. Look at me, Har-ley." He brings his fist down hard - onto the fingers that had been trapped in the car door - causing a blindingly intense burst of pain.

My eyes open involuntarily, letting my true emotions show: icy, burning hatred. Contempt and disgust.

His slams his body into mine, and the sickening knowledge hits me that this is turning him on. And that although he isn't interested in any type of satisfaction I could give him as an expression of love, he's experiencing a different kind of excitement and intimacy through violence.

Dimly, I remember something he told me in our first therapy session. About why he uses a knife: "guns are too quick... you can't _savour_ all the little emotions."

I could be a stranger off the street. It's my disgusted struggling to avoid his touch that's making him excited.

I don't know if I can explain this, even now. But I'll try:

I don't think that J doesn't want to be loved: I think it's the opposite. Like everyone else, he wants others to really see him and love him anyway. But for the Joker, unless someone's running away screaming, he know's they don't really understand him.

_Or that they're the Batman._

I squirm underneath him. His pins me tighter to the metal of the car.

Now his hands move up to my throat as his thighs continue to crush me against the bonnet. Hard pressure as rough hands encircle my neck, compressing my trachea. My vision is narrowing down to a pin-point. White light.

I hear a choking sound, and realise it's coming from me.

_I don't care._

I'm hardly fighting now. One of his hands leaves my throat and I hear the sound of a belt and a zipper being undone.

His voice. Low, grating, jerky: "Don't say I never do anything for you, Harl'." Excited laughter.

The pressure encircling my neck returns, cutting my air supply off.

The white light overwhelms me.

I go limp.

I stop fighting.

_**At the police station.**_

The man and the woman opposite me are glued to their chairs, motionless. Detective Hadley is looking at me with deep, sad sympathy seeping through her warm coffee-coloured features. Detective McCane looks as if he's going to vomit. And then kick someone's ass.

I finish my story, raising my eyes towards the camera in the corner.

But I don't really finish it. I leave out the ending.

I leave out the way a part of me felt so freaking good.

How I knew that J was getting off on my pain and humiliation and surrender – and how I wanted to stay in that moment with him forever.

I leave out how I hated myself for giving in and loving him so fiercely - with my entire heart.

And I leave out how, just before I blacked out, I remembered something from a lecture: "Adult survivors of abuse may seek out - and stay within - similarly abusive relationships with other adult survivors...

...because, to them, _that's what love feels like._"

**As always, reviews & areas to improve are keenly appreciated. **

**Oh, and you may have noticed that this is my take on _that _scene from 'Mad Love', Harley's origin story. **

**I've tried to make it closer to real-life, which makes it all the more disturbing. Although really, when we see how _Mad Love _ends... it shouldn't be. **


	4. Chapter 4: Bruce Wayne

**This was originally chapter five. Sorry for the confusion.**

_Note for Nolanverse fans who are new to the rest of the Batverse: Selina Kyle = Catwoman. :-P_

**Bruce/Batman**

There's no way that Selina will be able to resist. That's the one thing that I'm sure of.

We've been playing this game of . . . cat and mouse for years. Sometimes I'm the cat, and sometimes I'm not. But it's never boring.

I'm crouching on a roof, across the street from a jewellery shop in one of Gotham's swankiest shopping districts. It's a little after midnight.

_Silence._

I wait.

We've been doing this dance together for years . . . and I still don't understand what makes Selina tick.

The socialites and the models . . . even the career women I'm obligated to pursue in the glare of the public eye: I know what makes them tick. Usually, before they tell me their name.

What makes most of them tick is money. Or, to be more specific: my money.

I used to think that it was more complicated then that. That it was the things that money can _buy_ that makes them tick. Things like security or the admiration and envy of other women. Things like the option not to work, or to only work at what they love (which really isn't work). All of the things that a billionaire playboy like Bruce Wayne is expected to lavish on the one woman who beats the odds and wriggles her way into my heart - and into my wallet.

And then I realised that it wasn't that complicated. Or rather, that it really was that simple. No matter what it is that they think will make them happy, they think that money is the answer. The key, the prize and the answer. And if there's one thing that I have, it's money.

I'd like to think that it's the hours I spend in the Bat-gym, or my understated sense of humour. A part of me wants to believe that it's Bruce Wayne's confidence and self-deprecating charm that women are drawn to, like moths to a flame.

But when I'm alone with a woman and I'm watching her eyes glaze over, and I see how her mind is wandering off as she nods along and fakes a laugh at one of Bruce's jokes . . . I can't lie to myself. I know, with absolute certainty, that if I were a waiter with nothing to offer except my heart – fierce and burning – then she wouldn't be pretending to find Bruce Wayne's inane chatter so utterly absorbing.

And Selina? It should be obvious what makes her tick.

The woman is a thief; a thief of precious jewels. That should be it, case closed: she's just like all the others. Except, to her credit, she isn't hanging around waiting for a commitment-phobic playboy to morph into her fairy godmother and grant her wishes with a wave of his, er, wand.

And yet.

That interpretation doesn't sit with me; there's a piece of the puzzle that's still missing. A piece that will bring the whole picture into sharp focus, if I can find it and place it in exactly the right spot.

I learned to read people at a very young age. I had to. Because even as a child, almost everyone wanted something from me. They all had their hands out. Even when they didn't realise it.

If Selina Kyle were just another shallow gold-digger, I would have picked up on it by now. And the dance between us would have finished. _Thank you for playing and goodbye._

Instead, there's something that continues to tug at me. Something that makes me feel that Selina Kyle is a cat-burglar the way that Bruce Wayne is a playboy, or that Batman is a vigilante. That's the surface of the thing; it isn't the thing itself.

So what is it that makes her tick? The buzz, the adrenaline? Is it an addiction to her, a compulsion to chase that first high?

When she's on a job does she experience the same feeling that I do when I'm fighting with everything that I have in me to give - the feeling of willingly losing oneself inside that deep flow?

Is she driven by the need to outdo herself, to prove something to herself or to someone else?

_Does Selina even know herself?_

And the money, the valuables themselves. What do they mean to her . . . are they a way of keeping score? They're stolen from thieves. Or worse. And, generally speaking, she distributes the bounty among Gotham's poorest. Is that it, the piece of the puzzle that I'm missing?

No. That's part of it, but it's not the piece that I'm missing.

Because the piece of scum who murdered my parents is _part _of what drives me to be Batman. But it isn't the missing piece. It's what I would say if I had to explain why I do this. But I couldn't convince myself with that explanation – not on its own.

I turn my focus back to the task at hand, surveying the empty street below me with a sweeping glance. A light drizzle begins to fall.

After half an hour with no sounds but the faint patter of raindrops and the buzzing of streetlights, a muffled _thump _reaches my ears. It isn't loud, but I've been waiting for it all night.

If I'm correct, it came from someone landing on the roof of the jewellery shop that I'm watching.

Steel security shutters veil the windows of the shop. The windows themselves are bullet-proof plexiglass, two-inches thick. The whole of the buildings exterior is doubly alarmed – with one ostentatious security system and one that's hidden - unless you know exactly what you're looking for.

For twenty minutes there's nothing. No more sounds and nothing to see.

And then there's a narrow beam of light from inside the shop, spilling out through the shuttered window into the street. It's there for a minute and then it's gone.

I can't help myself: I smile. A real smile, for the first time in days.

I stand and walk to the edge of the roof, about to press the button that will snap my cape into glider mode. Against all reason I feel like I'm looking forward to something. Like I'm on my way to a party where I _know_ I'm going to have a good time. As if I'm on my way to meet an old friend; someone I can be completely myself around, with whom the conversation is _never_ boring. My heart is beating a little faster than normal . . . and I can't seem to stop the corners of my mouth from turning up.

_Focus Bruce. Remember why you're here._

Why am I here?

Shaking my head, I glance down at my wrist to check the scene inside the jewellery shop. The pin-head sized cameras transmitting the images were stuck in several strategic locations by me this morning, during an outburst at the manager for the "shabby excuse for customer service" and the "complete lack of merchandise that any self-respecting billionaire could wear without being the laughing stock of the yacht club". An outburst that involved some rather dramatic waving around of my arms and banging my fists into counters - allowing me to stick the tiny cameras into place.

I grin ruefully at the memory. Just another story that will add to the Bruce Wayne image. Not one of the most shocking. Not by a long shot.

I'm not expecting to see anything out of the ordinary as I look down at the image. Selina's a professional, although calling her one is a little like calling the Pope "a fellow who enjoys the odd prayer". The most that I'm hoping for is a flash of shiny black, just so I know it's her.

The image on the screen isn't what I was expecting.

In fact, it's last thing that I was expecting to see.

* * *

_This chapter was partially inspired by the fanfic 'Fetish', by the awesome princessbee. It got me thinking about what really makes certain characters tick . . . and whether those closest to them understand it._

**Please review with a point (or more than one point!) for improvement. I don't think I can communicate how highly I value honest criticism, so I'll just paraphrase the amazing Crazylanie93, by saying that it absolutely makes my day :-).**


	5. Chapter 5: Harley

**Harley**

Detective McCain breaks the silence. He fixes his dark blue eyes on me, and rubs the stubble along his jawline.

"Here's what I don't get Dr Quinzel..." he says, leaning forward with an amused, questioning look and a cocky little half-smile. He's in his mid-thirties, and he looks like he works out - without looking like he's training for a body-building competition.

Which is how I like 'em.

Grey t-shirt, faded jeans. He has that swagger, that cockiness that just pushes my buttons. The worn holster with the Glock .22 definitely adds a little something, too.

"I mean, the Joker . . . come on, most of his men are lucky if they make it to their one year anniversary in his crew. Not that I can picture him handing out the 'Happy Anniversary' gifts." he says in his rough Gotham drawl, with a teasing little smile. One player to another.

I read that spark in his eyes - he knows exactly how freakin' smart he is. He's one of those men who act the reckless, wise-cracking guy's guy, but can play his position with the best of them.

I know his type; can picture him flirting with female colleagues, and the crushes they all have on him. The ex-wife, the drinking. The speeding, and charming his way out of speeding tickets. That will be the fun part for him; driving away knowing that he talked his way out of it, once again.

And I like him. I like him a lot. It would be fun to get to know him, to tease and peel away the layers, to see if I can get inside him. To see if he can keep my interest, once I'm in. Maybe we could find something in each other that we're both . . . _but it would never be like it was with Mr J._

I push down the ache that accompanies that thought and return his cocky grin. One player to another. Just because he can't come close to being able to fill the empty, J-shaped hole in my life, doesn't mean that I can't have a little fun.

"Oh, I had my uses, Detective McCain." I take a deep, sensuous drag of my cigarette without breaking eye contact. I know that he's a smoker from the tell-tale stains on his fingers – watching me inhale with such pleasure will be pressing all sorts of buttons inside the Detective.

"Even if they weren't in the bedroom." I say, letting my voice go deep and husky on the last word. I bite my lower lip, letting my eyes sparkle mischievously.

In the other seat across the table, Detective Hadley gives a loud cough.

_Spoilsport._

The camera in the corner is still silently recording. On the other side of the two-way mirror behind me, half the GCPD are probably still watching.

I briefly consider acting dumb for a while, just to teach Detective Hadley a lesson. But then I feel bad: over the past four hours she's been nothing but kind to me.

I shift my attention to the female detective, letting the coyness drop from my face. For the first time today I realise that my next story may not go down too well with my audience. Something rises up in my belly that feels almost like . . . guilt? _No, I'm probably just hungry._

"You think I could get a McDonald's or something?" I ask Detective Hadley, and then turn round to include the two-way mirror. A nod passes between the Detective and whomever's on the other side.

I slouch down in my chair with a babyish sigh. Then that unpleasant feeling tugs at the pit of my stomach again.

"I had my uses." I repeat, so quietly that I'm not sure if I really said it out loud.

And I'm back in Gotham's Savings and Loans bank, on that bright April morning.

...

I check the body's pulse one last time, and skip out the doorway to meet the others.

_Bang._

While I'm on the stairs another round goes off, and then the muffled sound of the metal case _pinging_ against the hard floor. A shout. There was real fear in that shout, so I know that it didn't come from anyone on _my _crew.

I pick up my pace, taking the stairs two at a time. I don't want to miss all the fun...

At the bottom of the stairs I stop, and stand absolutely still. For most of my childhood, being able to make myself cry was one of my most valuable skills. In fact it was the only skill I really had. Before males started giving me _that _look.

I tune out the commotion on the other side of the door and focus inward.

When I picture my childhood, it's usually like it happened to someone else; to another little girl. And my heart breaks for her, but she isn't me.

Now I call up a picture of that little girl in my mind, standing frozen in the dirty kitchen. I picture the washing hanging on the radiators, absorbing the greasy cooking smells, and the person that I feared most; before I met J. That little girl is trembling with fear, and there is nothing that she can do to defend herself against the adult whose temper has just snapped.

I step inside her. And the fear, the hurt, and the shame rip through the walls that I usually keep in place, knocking the air out of my lungs. I can feel the tears bursting out, feel the sobs racking through my body. My nose is snotty, and I'm making a mewling noise like a cat.

I stumble through the door blindly, onto the main floor of the bank. It's show-time now.

And I'm going to play my part perfectly.

* * *

**As always, constructive criticism is strongly solicited. If you're a nice person, a "good point/area for improvement/good point" format may help. I know that when I review someone's story, I have trouble not just giving the good points :-D**


	6. Chapter 6: Selina Kyle

_Special shout-out to my new Beta: the talented and witty xTune (author of Horrible Relations) :-D_

**Selina/Catwoman**

It's so beautiful that I can hardly look at it. But I don't want to take my eyes off it, either.

I'm temporarily blinded by my own pen-torch, as its light caresses the sky-blue diamond. It's a perfect, slender teardrop; breathtaking in it's simplicity. If you didn't know diamonds, you might think that it was plainly cut...and you would be dead, dead wrong.

The skill required to create so much beauty – to coax the multi-faceted sparkle from the rough mineral - is beyond the ability of most living diamond-cutters. This stone was shaped by a master.

Two flawless white diamonds flank the azure teardrop in the platinum ring. That I barely notice them just emphasizes how utterly breathtaking the central blue diamond really is.

It's the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen.

By tomorrow morning it will be on its way back to Hong Kong, where it was bought at auction by the owner of this jewellery shop. He will be compensated by the insurance company, my bank balance will be a little larger, and two East Gotham elementary schools will receive an anonymous donation - that will bankroll free breakfasts for the kids for the next three years. Something that might not seem important to anyone who's ever owned as much gorgeousness as this clear blue diamond. But I can remember sitting in an East Gotham classroom with an empty stomach, and a slow, fuzzy head. Hoping that the teacher wouldn't notice me. At least till after lunch.

I place the ring back into its case, and drop the case into my bag. I don't bother to inspect the rest of the jewellery; I just scoop the slim, closed boxes into my backpack.

With quick, steady hands I empty the safe and leave the back-room of the shop, gently closing the door behind me. It took a little over twenty minutes to bypass two security systems, pick two sets of locks, and crack the safe open. I allow myself a little lopsided grin at that thought: _I'm too damn good._

And that's the problem. If the sheer brilliance of the gemstone hadn't caught my attention the way it did, then tonight would be business as usual. Hardly worth it to me; there's more money in my accounts then I could ever spend on myself...and yet not enough to cover the basic needs of my East-Gotham neighbours: men and women who work full-time, but can barely pay their rent. And then you throw an unexpected medical bill into the mix...

So I keep going. Taking enough to feel that I'm doing everything I can to help my people, but not enough for anyone to pay serious money to off me - at least not if they're up to date on their insurance payments. A little from each job goes into my retirement fund, though the amount that I keep is increasingly getting smaller.

It started with the intoxication of getting away with it - the rush of taking with impunity - and it rapidly became an obligation to give. Which I do, because I know what it's like to be so desperate that you'll grab at any hope, even when it's offered by the scum who prey on desperation. I really know. But the fun finished when it became a responsibility.

Or, most of the fun ended...a small smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. A not-so-little part of me is hoping that Batsy will drop by; it's been a while since we played. Too long.

In the corner of the showroom, I hear it.

It's coming from the alcove. It's the sound of someone breathing, and then the unmistakable sound of a lighter sparking a flame. A flickering glow bounces off the glass cases of the alcove, casting a warm pool onto the surrounding carpet.

This isn't the Bat's usual style – but hey, I'm always up for a new twist on an old favourite.

Nimbly, I make my way over to the alcove. My pulse has quickened and my senses are sharpening - in the way that only happens when I don't know whether to expect a flirtation, or an invitation to a mixed martial arts grudge-match - or both. This is Batman we're talking about.

"I thought that you'd forgotten about me..." I purr teasingly. Though there was a real affection in there that wasn't planned.

"Forget about you? Come on..." The back of my neck prickles when I hear that voice: something isn't right.

A small, round table is set up in the alcove. A bottle of something is chilling in a silver ice-bucket. Next to the candle sits a blood-red rose in a china vase.

The man standing behind the table steps out of the shadows, into the pool of light.

He isn't the Batman.

And now my senses snap into focus, because now someone really is in danger.

And it isn't me.

_**As always, areas for improvement are strongly solicited :-). Paradoxically, if you liked this chapter, then the nicest thing you can do is tell me what could have been better. :-) Big thanks to all those who take me up on this! x **_


	7. Chapter 7: Mike Maroni

**Mike Maroni**

They say that the Wayne family built this city.

Charles Wayne, Kenneth Wayne: the pricks who carved their names onto libraries, and museums and shit.

But it wasn't like that.

The men who put their names on buildings – the chumps who built the factories that brought people here – they were the city's front. You know, like the restaurant that's the front for what's _really _bringing the money in.

What I'm saying is this: it was men like Tommy Falcone, Al Galante and Tony Maroni...they're the guys who really built this city. The men you only hear about now if you're in a crew: the old stories, like the one about my great-grandfather Tony.

See, when Tony was at war with the Falcone family in the '50s, he had a crooked Lieutenant in the East Gotham precinct. That was in the Falcone outfit's neighbourhood. And my great-grandfather, he was a real Wiseguy – the kind they don't make anymore. He sends his Lieutenant round, and he leaves Al Galante a parking ticket on his Cadillac – right outside his mother's house...a boss, getting a ticket _outside his Ma's house._

Al Galante hadn't been given a ticket in thirty years – he could park on a double-yellow line outside the city courthouse, and no-one would do shit about it. Fuck, the judge would valet it for him.

Afterwards, Al Galante had the Lieutenant's head sent round to Tony in an ice-box. But for sixty years that story's been doing the rounds, and it always ends the same way – "Tony Maroni, _ha avuto le palle_." - he had balls.

See, in those days we ran this city. Us Italians – no-one came close to what we had going on. We came here with nothing, and by the end of prohibition we had more dough, more action in Gotham than any of the 'founding families' like the Waynes. You could walk down almost any street in Gotham, and wherever you stopped – at a bar, at the Department Store where your wife bought her pantyhose – it didn't matter, we had a piece of the action.

Only it was all through fronts, or else we were getting a cut for the protection we could give – protection that the cops couldn't provide. Of course, they were mostly paying us to leave them alone - but if we weren't doing it, someone else would have. And they wouldn't have done what we did for this city.

See, the money we took, we put it back into our neighbourhoods. That money paid for half the buildings in Gotham, even if we didn't put our names on them.

See, we didn't _need _to put our names on anything. Men like my great-grandfather...everybody in the city already knew who he was.

And now look at us.

…...

I'm looking at myself in the glass of the display case – I can't see much with the lights off. Using the screen of my iPhone as a torch, I do the best I can. I had a shave and a haircut this morning - and I'm looking pretty good.

And I've got a good feeling about tonight. Like this is the point where everything is going to come together.

The diamond wasn't cheap – Earl, the prick who owns this shop and most of the pawn shops in my crew's neighbourhood – he took a lot of convincing before he agreed to go along with tonights plan. But in the end, it made good business sense. He gets the insurance pay-out, and an extra twenty grand from me. And he doesn't get whacked.

And what do I get?

We'll see.

I hear the door to the back-room click shut, and footsteps on the carpet getting louder, as the woman moves across the shop-floor. Towards where I'm waiting.

It's time. I light the candle with my father's silver lighter – the only thing he left me, apart from three sisters who don't want to work, and a mother who can't. My hands aren't shaking – it's just the flickering light that makes it look like they are.

She's getting closer.

"I thought that you'd forgotten about me...". She purrs: low and teasing, but warm - like Jack Daniel's hitting your stomach. Like dark honey.

That voice is just how I remember it. For a second I get that feeling, like before the first drag of cigarette I've been craving all day. The feeling that I almost don't want what I've been looking forward to: because after the first drag, I know that it won't be as good as the anticipation.

"Forget about you? Come on..." I say. I try to keep my voice natural, forcing my usual cockiness into it. No reason to be nervous - not after what I've been doing this past month. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake.

I had Earl set up a table earlier, and there's a bottle of Dom Perignon Jeroboam waiting.

She stops about five feet away from me, facing the alcove.

"You like the ring?" I ask. Playing it cool.

The woman in the shiny black catsuit had been strolling towards me like she was meeting an old friend. No, not a friend – there was nothing in that body language that said _friend..._at least not the platonic type. But she had been walking towards me like she wanted to play. Then that changed when she heard my voice for the first time. And now her body language is saying: "_Don't fuck with me."_

She's looking like she's about to pounce, and her hand is hovering over her belt. I get it, she's going for her whip: she's thinking that I'm about to pull a gun on her - that I'll need to be disarmed. That mental image makes me smile, for many reasons.

Slowly, I hold my hands up in front of me. Showing her that they're empty.

Now she slowly circles around me, taking in the scene. Her attention is flicking back and forth between me with my hands up, and the doors of the shop. She's assessing the situation, trying to figure out what my angle is. I grin even more – I can't help it. I'm getting a kick out of watching her this close up.

"It's a gift. The ring." I say. For a second her face is blank behind the little half-mask. Then realisation...and then suspicion.

"You like music?" I ask. Slowly, I move over to the corner of the alcove where my laptop is resting on the carpet – keeping my hands in clear view, so that she can see exactly what I'm doing. I don't want to scare her off. Not yet.

"Cut the shit Michael." her voice is down-to-business now. If I'm honest, it's even sexier than her earlier purr.

"You know my name?" I ask. Keeping my voice playful, though I'm genuinely surprised that she recognises me.

The last time I was this close to her, I was a teenager. She didn't even notice me. It was my Uncle Sal that she wanted to get a message to; I was a nobody back then. And she was also something new: something Gotham hadn't seen before. Not the legend she is now.

"We 'costumed freaks' look out for each other...when we're not trying to kill each other." she replies, deadpan.

"You believe everything you hear? Come on..." I'm running everything that I know about the Catwoman through my mind, trying to guess how much she's heard - and who was doing the talking. Even if it was Two-Face himself, that doesn't tell me much.

I don't know how far back she and Two-Face go: how tight they are. I don't know if he would have a reason to tell her the _real _story behind our "beef": the bad blood between our crews that everyone's talking about...just like we want them to.

Lately, wherever I go, I hear the same bullshit story – how it started over some 'hood shit between footsoldiers, and it's building up to a war between the costumed villains like Twofers and the Joker, and the straight-up gangsters like me and my family. A war that will end up taking out the Batman and the rest of the competition...leaving only Two-Face and my family with enough man-power to keep the city locked down.

When it comes down to it, I don't even know how much Two-Face has guessed about my end game. How he pictures our arrangement...concluding, and what he plans to do when we arrive there. So, even if I knew that the woman in the catsuit spoke to Two-Face today - on its own that doesn't tell me anything.

I'm standing there trying to decide the best way to play it, when I hear my phone ring. A few seconds later, a car pulls up at the back entrance of the shop.

"You hungry?" I ask, beginning to reach down to my pocket for the phone. Before my hand moves a full inch, the whip that she's holding flies outwards, uncoiling itself and then wrapping around my hands, binding them together.

My cousin Chris is at the backdoor now – I can hear the beeping as he enters the security code. His voice carries through to the showroom:

"Hey Mike, my Mom didn't believe that you made the lasagne. She thought that I was kidding her...I left it in for fifty-five minutes like you said. And I made sure that the top was brown before I took it out. It smells pretty good...hey, are you sure that this Catwoman chick is gonna to show up?"

I can hear the clink of plates and cutlery, as my cousin walks out from behind the counter at the back of the showroom. The overhead lights pop on as he walks through the door.

He must have forgotten what I said about creating a romantic atmosphere.

"Oh." Chris stands there for a second holding the plates in his hands, and the tray of lasagne balanced on top. He takes in the scene: me standing behind the table with my hands bound, and the Catwoman rapidly backing away from us, towards the front entrance of the store. I guess she must have a cupboard full of spare whips at home – she's leaving this one behind.

"You want me to clip her, Mike?" Chris asks cheerfully, balancing the stack of plates and the tray against his chest with his left hand, and reaching down for his piece with his right hand.

"That depends." I answer. Now I really do grin, as I turn to face the woman in black.

"You like lasagne?" I ask.

**_As always, suggestions for improvements are strongly solicited!_**

**_ Here is a virtual donut (O) and cup of coffee UD to provide some sustenance whilst you click on the review button... :-P :-D _**

**_Peace & Bat-love._**

_PS: I am partly of Italian-American heritage; my grandfather actually lived in Hell's Kitchen, New York as a boy. So if this chapter comes across as being guilty of clumsy stereotyping, that's from my complete lack of experience of the 'gangster' lifestyle - versus lack of knowledge of Italian-American culture..._

_PPS: As you may have guessed, Mike Maroni is an OC. So I guess I own him :-P _


	8. Chapter 8: Harley

_*Warning*: This JokerxHarley chapter contains graphic violence._

_Please keep in mind that is not the cuddly Harley of Mad Love... though she is every bit as crazy. Especially when it comes to a certain mass-murdering clown._

**Harley**

This feels so wrong.

I did exactly what J asked me to.

"He's dead. The manager-". There was real terror in my voice as I choked my line out. Genuine tears were gushing down my face. I actually stopped to take in the scene before stumbling backwards - feeling behind me for the handle of the door that I'd just come through.

I didn't just _pretend _that I was seeing the masked thugs with shotguns for the first time; I made myself believe that it was absolutely real. So that my fear would be real, too.

I nailed my part - this was the one time that I didn't fuck it up. But while I was upstairs garrotting the bank manager - just like we agreed - J changed the plan.

Now I'm kneeling on the floor with my hands behind my head. With the rest of the bank customers and staff. And J is holding some..._random woman_ in front of him, with her back pressed against his chest. He's using his left hand to grip her blonde hair, and his right hand to press his gun to her temple. She's letting out a truly terrified, whimpering sound as he drags her across the floor.

_I was supposed to play the hostage._

I'm so hurt and angry that I can barely keep from jumping up, grabbing the shotgun from Omar, and slamming it over the back of the Joker's head.

Now J and the woman are behind the counter, and through the plexiglass windows I can see him talking animatedly to the assistant manager; a Mr Darryl Fillion. I can't hear them, but I can see Darryl's expression as J shoves the woman forward onto her knees, and holds the barrel of the gun to the back of her skull. There's a loud _bang, _as a round goes off.

No one's bleeding. It was just a threat, aimed at the carpet.

And it worked. Mr Fillion is reaching for the key at his belt, and leading the way to the vault. Johnny stays for a minute, emptying the cash behind the counter into his backpack. The Joker drags the blonde woman onto her feet by the hair, and forces her to walk in front of him: they disappear through the door behind the counter.

Five minutes later I hear a _bang: _the sound of another round. Then hysterical screaming, abruptly cut off. I can't tell what caused the screaming to stop. Not from out here.

A wave of nausea – that must have been Mr Fillion being offed. And if it was, that means that J is already into the vault. I check my watch: we're right on schedule.

So everything _else_ is going according to plan.

A combination of resentment and...envy is gnawing away inside of me. I understand that using a real hostage made it more convincing. But that was always going to be the case. We _knew_ that there would almost certainly be female bank tellers and customers: all potential hostages. But J's plan was for me to _act _as the hostage, so that I could keep an eye on Mr Fillion.

So what changed in the last hour? Was there something about the trembling, terrified blonde woman that made J want to change the plan? That thought makes me feel like I've been punched in the gut – for a second, it hurts too much to breathe.

Another thought occurs to me: that he's deliberately fucking with my emotions. But that would mean that he's _aware_ enough of my emotions to get something out of doing this to me - something I find hard to believe.

_Figure this out later Harley; now you need to focus. Don't be stupid._

Omar keeps impatiently looking at the doorway behind the counter, where Mr J and Johnny will soon appear with fat bags of cash. I run my eyes over the other men and women kneeling on the floor. And the others, huddled against the back wall.

_There._

To my left is a middle-aged man in khaki's and a t-shirt. Sunglasses rest on his short, steely grey hair. Subtly, he's signalling to the security guard sitting against the wall. Now he's pointing to Omar, who's facing in the opposite direction.

_Oh lordy... a hero. Just what we need._

"Omar!" I shout, as the man springs up and charges forward with his head down, barrelling towards the masked man with the gun.

The first round from Omar's shotgun hits the hero in the thigh. Clutching at the gaping, bloody hole, he falls forward onto the floor.

Now the security guard has sprung up – he's on his feet trying to wrestle the weapon out of Omar's grip.

The masked man loosens his grip on the gun, and reaches down for his knife. His hand moves too quickly for me to see what where the knife landed, but the howling from the security guard tells me that he's badly hurt.

Omar briefly glances behind him: at me on the floor, and then at the hero clutching his thigh. He turns his attention back to the security guard, tossing me the knife.

"You wanna make sure that he doesn't get up?" Omar grunts at me. He's using the shotgun to motion to the bleeding security guard: indicating that he wants him back against the wall. I check my watch again – the others should be out by now.

In the background I hear the unmistakable wail of a siren.

_We need to get out of here. Soon._

I stand up, smoothing my skirt down in front of me. I'm going to the vault, to see what's taking so long.

Icy fingers grip at my stomach. I don't want to think about what J might be doing to the woman. About what could be so much fun that he's risking the whole job. What it is that he couldn't do with _me_, back at the house.

The hero doesn't make much of a sound as I walk past him – just a mumbled "please." He's lying on his back, still clutching his thigh. Then he goes limp.

He's lost a lot of blood, judging from the diameter of spreading pool. _Focus. Leave him for the ambulance_, _Harley. Remember why you're here._

I bend down to check his pulse. Just to make sure that he's not faking his incapacitation. No other reason.

I press my fingers over his radial artery, watching the second hand on my watch tick by. _Oh brother. _One hundred and ten. He's tachycardic. Under my fingers his wrist feels cold and clammy. He's pale too. I poke him in the arm with the tip of the knife. No response to pain: he really is unconscious – no faking. I press my thumb against the skin of his chest, checking his capillary refill time... which is long. So he's in hypovolaemic shock.

And something deep within me kicks in.

The sound of the sirens is louder now. Omar's saying something about checking on the others, but I'm not listening. Now he's shouting at me, and waving the shotgun around. The men and women on the floor flinch every time that the barrel of the gun points in their direction. I tune them all out and focus on the patient.

_Airways, fine. Breathing? Yup, it's faint, but it's there. Circulation... _I take off my jacket and press down hard on the wound. I rummage around in my bag with my left hand, continuing to press down on the wound with my right one. My left hand hits something cool and smooth – the wire that I used to kill the bank manager.

For some reason I feel like I'm going to throw up, as I wind the wire around my jacket, and then around the thigh above the wound to form a tourniquet. I need to get his legs elevated above heart-level. And I need fluids. And a crash team.

_Don't be stupid Harley. The ambulance will be here soon... won't it? _I strain my ears for a second. Police sirens only.

I run my gaze around the room.

"Your briefcase, and your backpack. I need them. _Now." _The two men that I'm addressing look at me blankly.

"We need to elevate his thigh. Throw them to me, _now._" Realisation seems to be dawning in their eyes, though the man with the briefcase looks reluctant to part with it.

"You." I address the younger man with the backpack, who's hesitantly standing up. "What's your name?"

He swallows, and then answers in a trembling voice: "Kevin."

"I need to you phone an ambulance Kevin. Tell them that-"

"He took our phones." he says, tossing me his bag. He nods towards Omar, who's pacing back and forth, aiming the shotgun at various cowering people on the floor.

There's no phone in my purse: one of the many manifestations of the Joker's paranoia is the ban against bringing phones on a job.

"Come here. Now." I order. Kevin looks hesitantly at Omar, and then at me. I'm wondering if I need to threaten him with the knife, but before I come to a decision the young man starts moving towards me on shaking legs. He's wearing a black t-shirt with white lettering, that says: _"There are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary, and those who don't." _On his backpack is a Starfleet Academy patch.

The old Harleen would have liked this kid.

"Press here. As hard as you can." I motion to the young man to get down on the floor next to the patient.

"When the police get here, tell them that you have an unconscious patient in hypovolaemic shock. They'll take it from there." I instruct him. He nods.

"What are you going to tell them?" I ask.

"I have an unconscious patient in hypovolaemic shock". Kevin replies. Good. He was paying attention.

"You know how to do CPR?" I ask.

"Is that like..." Kevin does a mime of performing chest compressions and then rescue breaths. I nod.

"Two breaths, and then check the pulse. If there's nothing, give thirty chest compressions. Keep repeating those two things until he starts breathing on his own. Or until the professionals arrive. And watch that the chest rises: if it's not rising, air isn't going in. But only start CPR when he stops breathing. You know how to check that?" I ask.

Whilst I'm explaining this to Kevin, I become aware of footsteps moving towards us from behind the counter. And Johnny, saying something in a low, gruff voice. Another familiar sound: heavy bags being dragged across the floor.

Then there's a change in the room; an electricity in the air that lets me know that the Joker is here.

Without looking up, I continue explaining to Kevin: "This is how you check". Calmly kneeling down, I place my cheek above the unconscious man's mouth. His breathing is ragged and faint. But it's still there.

"Look, listen and feel for his breath." I say, and Kevin nods; his blue eyes alert.

"Now you try it." I say. The young man hesitates for a second, and then bends over the patient.

His blonde head hovers above the injured man's cheek – and then it's gone. His head is gone. Blood from the shot that pierced through Kevin's skull is raining down around me in little droplets. Kevin's body falls forward, across the unconscious man on the floor.

I look up to where the shot came from, and realise that I'm staring directly into the Joker's face. He's wearing a mask, like the rest of the team. But I know him well enough to recognise the emotion there: it's the same mix of curiosity and sick contentment that one would see in the face of a boy, as he pulls the wings from a fly. His head is tilted slightly one side.

I've spent enough time around the Joker to understand that asking _why _is the wrong question.

To him, the answer is obvious: _Why not?_

And any reply that the old Harleen could give would be treated as a joke, or an opportunity for a rant about the hypocrisy of Western morality.

Because when it comes down to it, it's not a topic for debate – there are too many value judgements involved. Either you feel in your gut that what the Joker just did is heinous, or you don't.

* * *

**_Please review with areas for improvement! *Gets down on knees pleadingly*_**


	9. Chapter 9: Bruce Wayne

_*Warning*: Very short chapter :-P._

_Your reviews and suggestions for improvements are why I do this. _

_Every single review means the world to me; even the ones that are one sentence long :-D._

**...**

**Bruce/Batman**

I can't understand what Selina's doing.

I'm standing on the ledge of the roof, directly opposite the jewellery shop. Ready to intervene when she gets too..._ rough _with the Maroni kid.

The screen on my wrist displays the inside of the shop in real time.

Everything that I know about the Catwoman tells me that Mike Maroni should be on the floor by now. She should have made an attempt on his life; or at the very _least_ taught him a painful lesson. About what happens to gangster scum, like him, when they think that they can play with fire... and walk away unscathed.

I have to blink and shake the screen now. To make sure the Bat-surveillance system is still working. Because it's showing me something that _cannot _really be happening.

It looks like the Catwoman and Mike Maroni are sitting down at the table together. Eating lasagne.

I turn up the volume on my earpiece and listen to their conversation. Hoping to hear something that will explain what the fuck Selina is up to.

But instead of enlightening me, what I hear makes a hot blush creep up my neck underneath my Bat-gear; until it reaches my exposed cheeks.

"Yeah, we used to do the same thing." Mike says laughing. "We used to cut out of school before last period, and wait outside Gotham Prep. We started out dealing - but then we worked out that just robbing the the rich kids was a better strategy."

A low, husky laugh from Selina. "Some things never change. Not in East Gotham, anyway... It was easier for me to get away with it, though." She pauses, and a knowing smile spreads across her features; beautiful and dangerous in the candlelight.

"No teenage boy is going to admit that they were mugged by a _girl._" she purrs. Mike laughs so hard that I'm hoping, I mean I'm worried, that he's going to choke on his lasagne.

Something that I've never heard before is in Selina's voice. There's a shared joke there that I'm on the wrong side of.

But the Catwoman is right.

Nathaniel and I never told anyone. About being mugged by the group of girls in Convent School uniforms. When we were almost seventeen.

I _hate _this guy.

And I'm not feeling too friendly towards Selina either.


	10. Harley: The Joker's Joke Part 1

**Chapter X: The Joker's Joke (Part 1)**

_*Warning*: This JokerxHarley chapter contains graphic violence._

**Harley**

At the point in my story where Kevin's head is blown off, I'm interrupted by a soft, polite knock at the door of the interrogation room.

Detective Hadley exchanges a glance with Detective McCain: I can't interpret the look that passes between them. The earlier expression of pure empathy in Hadley's face is gone: now all I can read is a tired guardedness. She shifts her weight and slowly unfolds her body from the chair, rubbing her right calf. Standing, she flexes her leg several times, and walks over to open the door.

"Dr Quinzel's McDonald's has arrived." The voice is low, the tone even and controlled. Detective Hadley's back is blocking my view, but I glimpse the face of Commissioner Gordon over her shoulder. He lowers his voice further to speak to Hadley, and she steps outside the room, closing the door behind her.

I can smell the fried food from here.

"I'm sorry, I'm not hungry anymore... may I have some tea instead, please?" I ask apologetically, my throat sore and dry from the hours spent recording.

Detective McCain crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. Our eyes meet for a long second. There was warm amusement there earlier, and something more. Now he gives me a look that plainly shows what he thinks of me.

It isn't a friendly look.

I cross my arms in front of me on the table-top, and rest my head on-top of them, closing my eyes. _Watch what you say next, Harley. _If I'm doing this, then I'm going to tell them everything – except the reason why I'm really here.

A second later, I open my eyes in response to the scraping of a chair being pushed back: Detective McCain is standing up to check the camcorder. Standing behind it, he nods in my direction and asks gruffly: "Can you keep going?"

I nod back silently.

And continue.

…...

The sirens are getting closer. Johnny and Omar are dragging the bags of cash across the floor.

The blonde woman isn't with them. So either she's tied up in the vault, or she was killed in a way that didn't involve a gun - or any screaming. My memory's a little hazy on this point, but I think that J has about twenty-seven ways of meeting that objective... that I've personally witnessed. I squash down the mental images that accompany that thought.

Reflexively, I check the pulse of the unconscious man. It's so weak now that I can barely feel it. But it's still there.

The three masked men are focusing their attention on the wall across from the counter. The other two are fidgeting - checking their watches and pacing the floor - but Mr J is standing absolutely still, head tilted slightly to one side. His posture is relaxed, but his dark brown eyes are alert; flickering rapidly around the room. Underneath the fraying purple jacket, the hard muscle of his torso is visible. Underneath the mask, the ends of his greasy, dyed-green hair are poking out. He's slightly bent over, listening for something in the distance.

I check my watch. And like the others, I wait.

When it comes, the explosion is quieter than I was expecting. The hole in the side wall is smaller than we were hoping for... but it will do.

By the time the thick, white plaster dust begins to settle, Omar has already wiggled through the opening into the stockroom of the adjoining shop. Johnny begins squeezing the stuffed bags of cash through the wall, using his entire body weight to shove them through.

Outside, police cars are pulling up. Mr J turns to listen to the voice crackling over the megaphone. Behind him I see the security guard, the man who received a stab-wound earlier. Omar must not have hit anything major, because he's on his feet again and he's barreling towards the Joker, knocking him to the ground. The guard is a big guy, and he's using both hands to pummel Mr J. I can hear the _smack _of his fists hitting J's body, and the sickening _snap_ of one of J's ribs fracturing; the sound prompts an ecstatic burst of laughter from the clown on the floor.

Johnny's onto the last bag now. Lily will be waiting outside in the stolen police car, in her stolen GCPD uniform. By now, Omar's probably in his GCPD uniform too, and is strolling out to drop the bags with Lily. I could hop through the hole now, leaving Mr J and the unconscious man behind me.

I remember something that the Joker told me in an early therapy session; about the first bank heist he ever pulled, and how he was the only survivor. I turn that thought over in my mind, as the sound of J's euphoric laughter and the _thump_ of his head being slammed against the floor echoes off the walls.

Johnny's climbing through the hole now, following the last bag out. Before he disappears, he glances behind him at the Joker - lying on his side, pinned to the floor by the guard's weight - and then at me. Johnny bends down to skid his shotgun to me across the shiny floor.

"Make it quick, Harl'." he says, with one last look over his shoulder. I guess it doesn't occur to him that I would have a problem with shooting an unarmed man in the service of the Joker – and why would it?

The weight of the shotgun is heavy and the handle is warm. Cautiously, I balance it across my lap and sit there – motionless - as if I'm stuck to the floor with glue. All of sudden, I feel so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open.

The security guard's rage seems to be dying down. He's barely putting any effort into J's beating now. And that's a mistake, because while he was giving the Joker such a vigorous work over he was being allowed to live. Because one thing about the Joker is that... well, he does seem to enjoy getting a good beating now and then. But the guard doesn't know that. He pauses to wipe the beads of sweat that drip from his forehead and J's knife darts upward, severing first his right and then his left carotid artery. The security guard falls forward as the Joker stands up, without even glancing down at the man that he's just killed.

I gently feel for the pulse of the man on the floor. It's faint and thready but it's still there. And I know that however tempting it is to walk away from this mess, I can't. Not this time.

I bring my eyes up to the man in the rumpled purple suit and the clown mask, and I _really_ look at him, as if I'm seeing him for the first time. He strides across the floor with a loose, confident gait. He doesn't even look down as he walks by me – he just aims his handgun at the unconscious man beside me, emptying two rounds into his chest.

There's a deep cry of pain - which doesn't make any sense, because the man isn't breathing anymore. He's gone. And then I realise that it's coming from me.

Without planning to, I pick up the shotgun from my lap and aim it at the Joker. My heart is beating so loudly that it's all I hear: the sirens, the voice crackling across the megaphone, the sounds from the huddled bodies on the floor – it feels as if they're all in another universe. The only thing that exists is the _lub-dub_ of my heart and the green-haired man who is walking away from me.

I slides the safety catch off; the _click-click_ echoes off the walls.

Slowly, the Joker turns around to face me. His eyes light up when he sees the shotgun in my hands. "Oh, _now_ we're talking..._mmm_" he says; low and husky. For the first time in weeks, his entire attention is focused on me.

He advances toward me, sliding the mask up, with a look of sick pleasure and anticipation. _Think Harley. Remember what you wrote after that first session._

And all of sudden, it clicks. I understand why he looks so thrilled: he's pleased with _himself, _because he's _won_. When you're dealing with a self-hating masochist like me, it takes a very special and a very clever type of evilness to push us to the point where we don't want to play anymore. Because until that point, it really is all foreplay.

Or is he looking so gleefully happy for another reason? Because now I _really_ see him... and it sickens me. Is this what he's been trying to show me since that first meeting, when after ten minutes I knew that I liked him more than anyone I'd ever met - even though I wouldn't admit it to myself? Something that Mr J rapidly picked up on, and ruthlessly exploited - even as _he_ seemed to find my infatuation increasingly baffling.

The funny thing is that almost two years later, I'm even further from understanding what's going on inside his head than I was then. Or maybe I'm just less ignorant of my own ignorance now. Either way, I probably made the right decision to leave psychiatry. Although assisting a mass-murdering sociopath to escape and joining him in a crime spree was possibly not the smartest way to change careers.

I can't help it: I burst out laughing. And Mr J laughs back, which makes me laugh even more. _Is this what it feels like to be hysterical? _I wipe away the tears that are streaming from my eyes and meet his gaze. There's a warmth there and something that looks like... affection? Like he's finally found someone else who gets the joke?

I tilt my head to one side, licking my lips: habits that I picked up from him.

And I squeeze the trigger.

...

_**Please review, with any suggestions to improve this chapter. I promise not to take offence... :-P**_

_**Note to the lovely Patrick Verona's Cougar:**_

_**1) No, this isn't a series of one-shots :-D. Harley and the Joker's story will soon come crashing into Mike, Selina and Bruce Wayne's story. Though that's still several chapters away. Sorry :-P.**_

_**2) Thank you for the wonderful and encouraging reviews... and check your fanfic . net inbox, lol!**_


	11. Chapter 11: Bruce Wayne

**Bruce/Batman**

The sun rises on Gotham City.

It was a quiet night: after I left the jewellery shop, there were only four attempted muggings, two attempted rapes and one attempted robbery.

_It must have been the rain - keeping the criminals inside. _

Using the glider function of my Batwings, I cruise from roof to roof. Beneath me, the city is beginning to wake.

The mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread wafts up to me.

The metal shutters of a grocery store begin to _creak _open, revealing shiny glass windows. A man emerges from the opening to collect a freshly printed stack of newspapers. If he notices the winged shadow blocking out the early-morning light . . . well, he knows better than to look up.

My bed is calling to me. As is a steaming hot shower. And one of Alfred's special hot chocolates with marshmallows . . . I mean, a manly tumbler of Scotch.

At the edge of the city I hop down, landing in front of a dilapidated row of garages: the shock-absorbers in my Batboots do what they're designed to. I unlock one of the garage doors, and slide into the seat of the Batpod.

_Almost home, Bruce_.

I didn't break any bones tonight - anyone else's bones, that is. Since Lucius's new gear arrived, I haven't worried about breaking _my own _bones.

But tonight I was practically a gentleman. The criminals were left handcuffed, in one piece, for the police. Although it'll be a long time before they'll even _think _about attempting that particular crime again - without breaking out in a cold sweat and falling to the floor in a gibbering wreck. Thanks to the modified fear toxin darts. Another of Lucius's babies.

The engine of the Batpod roars to life underneath me.

Outside the garage the air is already beginning to heat up; today's going to be a scorcher. The wind plays with my cape as I go from zero to sixty on the empty highway. Wind and the heat of the sun combine and stroke that one exposed part of me.

_Life is good. _

I remember what Selina said to the Maroni kid as she left the shop. And grin to myself.

* * *

_**Back at Wayne Manor**_

* * *

It's cool and dark inside the Batcave.

"A busy night, I presume?" Alfred says, helping me out of the Kevlar vest.

"Pretty quiet, actually Al. Hey, do you think I could get a hot chocolate – er - I mean, a glass of Scotch?" I reply.

Alfred wrinkles his brow in bewilderment as he hangs up the Kevlar vest. I hold my Batbelt out to him.

"I hope that the recipient of your . . . attentions tonight is in a stable condition, Master Bruce. Perhaps sir would like me to check with the intensive care unit?"

I don't understand what Alfred's getting at. "The GCPD holding cells, you mean? I didn't put anyone in ICU tonight, Alfred." I give him a friendly grin.

The familiar face of the white-haired man looks even more perturbed. "But the _smiling, _Master Wayne. Why else would . . . ?"

I briefly wonder if dear old Alfred is beginning to develop senile dementia. After all, he must be pushing seventy. I decide to graciously change the subject.

"Hey, Alfred. I was thinking of having Miss Kyle over for dinner. What do you think?"

There's a look in my old friend's eyes now; a mix of amusement, affection and exasperation.

"Ah, I suppose you and Miss Kyle _encountered _one another tonight, sir?" He seems to be suppressing a laugh. I make a mental note to book an appointment for him with a neurologist. Isn't inappropriate laughter a sign of deteriorating mental function?

"In a manner of speaking, Alfred . . . what do you think Selina would like?"

Now Alfred pauses in the middle of placing my man-tights in the laundry hamper. There it is again; that mixture of amusement and exasperation. He hands me my monogrammed dressing gown; I feel my muscles relax as I wrap myself in the heavy silk.

"I believe Miss Kyle might enjoy good quality Italian cooking. Deceptively simple, authentic and rich in history. I could prepare a _Risotto ai Funghis Porcini_, or perhaps my _Lasagne al Forno_-"

My mood darkens. The grin is gone from my face. "Forget it. I'll book us a table at Eaterion." It's just one of the restaurants that I own in central Gotham, but after a disastrous date I recently had with a fashion journalist . . . well, I have studied their menu. Several times.

And I know they don't serve Lasagne.

"Very well sir. Although, some women are more _well disposed_ to a man who takes the time to prepare a meal themselves. It shows that one is-"

I cut him off with a gesture, while dialling the number of Eaterion. While I'm leaving a message for the manager, Alfred takes the laundry hamper up the stairs.

Ten minutes later he returns with a silver tray: a glass of Scotch rests on a small square napkin. Little beads of condensation catch the light; they cling to the heavy crystal, shimmering. Next to the Scotch is one of Alfred's special hot chocolates. With cream and marshmallows.

The elderly man is quietly shuffling out of the Batcave. Without knowing what I'm doing, I'm on my feet embracing him from behind in a rough bear hug. His body feels worryingly thin and frail as I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him tightly.

"Thank you Alfred. _For everything._" My voice is low and gruff and choked with emotion. I don't let him go, even though I know I should._ I love him._ And I can't imagine – don't want to imagine – life without him.

"You're welcome, Master Wayne." Alfred replies with an emotion that I can't place.

He squeezes my hand fiercely, and then pats it gently.

"Sir would do well to get some sleep."

"Will do Alfred." I reply gruffly, heading back to my seat.

I down the Scotch in one swallow, and get to work on those marshmallows. I should really drag myself up to the shower . . .

Before I fall asleep in my chair I think about the way Selina's body felt that one night, four years ago. How her hair smelled. How it felt to trace my rough fingertips along the contours of her face, and how she shivered as I did so. How I can't think of a good reason why afterwards, it was as if nothing had changed. Why I never told her that I_ wanted_ things to change between us.

_Oh, right. Because she's not going to stop committing crimes, and I'm not going to stop . . . I'm not going to stop . . ._

Sleep overtakes me. Just before I drift off I remember my parents faces, when they were younger than I am now; timeless, fixed for eternity by the flash of a camera. A snippet of a Philip Larkin poem pops into my head:

"Time has transfigured them into

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their final blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost true:

**What will survive of us is love.**"

My snores echo off the walls of the Batcave.

* * *

_**Please review! You know you wanna... :-P**_

_** It would really make my day to hear what you thought of this chapter - and what could be improved.**_


	12. Chapter 12: Thank you :D

**If you're still reading this after eleven chapters . . . thank you. :-D. It absolutely means the world to me to know you're out there :-P.**

Sadly, the unfinished chapter below will be the last chapter of _Disrupt Me _in its current incarnation; if it returns, it will be as two separate stories – one following Harley/Joker; the other following Selina/Bruce.

It's become clear that I was trying to do too much in one fic. :-( And that the constant chopping between viewpoints made it difficult to get into. It was actually pretty daft of me to attempt to weave so many different narrative threads into one story.

Additionally, I understand that those who want to read about Harley/Joker may not wish to wade through the Bruce/Selina chapters - and vice-versa. Which makes sense; :-) as fans, the pairings we follow are usually very personal and specific. :-P

I also think it was a mistake to tell the story completely from the mouths' of Gotham's antiheroes and villains . . . and that introducing Harley at her most psychologically fragmented made it much harder to relate to her, than if I had introduced her before meeting Mr. J. - or mid-way through her rehabilitation.

Through corresponding with readers I've realized that - for longer fics especially - the reader usually needs to identify with the protagonist to the extent that they're with them utterly – that the protagonist's story _is_ the reader's story while they're reading. And sadly, I don't feel I was able to do this here.

I would be amazingly grateful for your thoughts on these issues. I know that there are many readers who have never commented – and I would be particularly humbled to hear from you; especially if there is anything you would like to see in future fics.

Lastly, a massive ***Thank You**_*_ to the awesome people whose honest and kind reviews/PMs kept me going and taught me much. In alphabetical order they are:

**allthelovers**

**Castor**

**Crazylanie93**

**Florence Redd**

**footshooter**

**kindleflame5**

**Patrick Verona's Cougar**

**PorterJ**

**Psyche444**

**scarletnightingale**

**ShadeShadow**

**StTudnoBright**

**TigerPickles**

**xTune**

(If I've missed anyone, I'm sorry; please let me know. Peace & Batlove :-D Ax)

* * *

**CHAPTER 12 (UNFINISHED)**

* * *

**Bruce/Batman**

The night is hot and muggy; underneath my Batgear I'm itchy and I'm sweating.

Streetlights illuminate the shuttered shops below. Their faint buzz and my steady breathing are the only things breaking the silence. I focus on the humid air entering my lungs; the sweat collecting in beads across my forehead. When I'm sure I have control over the darkness inside, I turn the earpiece back on. There's a high screech as it crackles back to life.

_For four hours I've been on this roof-top. _

Across the street, inside the jewellery shop, a man and a woman sit and talk within a pool of candlelight.

The woman's voice is a husky purr. The man's voice makes me want to ram my fist into his face - repeatedly.

If I leave now, it will take less than thirty minutes to find a criminal to use as a punching bag. This is Gotham, after all. _Stopping the crime will be a bonus. _

But I don't leave. I don't burst into the jeweller's in smack-down mode. The simple fact is this: the information the Maroni kid is giving Selina is too useful to me to interrupt their little _dîner aux chandelles_.

So I grit my teeth; force myself to relax my muscles . . . and keep my eyes glued to the screen at my wrist.

* * *

**Selina Kyle/Catwoman**

* * *

The man sitting across from me is no kid. Though I understand why others might make that _very dangerous _mistake.

There's a boyishness in his features, and most of the time there's a sparkle there - a sort of mischievous twinkle; an easy grin, a warm laugh. There's a self-effacement there too, that's very endearing. When he shakes his head a lock of hair falls into his eyes; he pushes it away roughly and rubs his smooth jawline as if expecting to feel stubble. Brown hair, and dark, dark eyes: they light up his entire face.

_He's in his mid-to-late-twenties. And I am thirty-three. _

Something else, too: co-existing with the easy charm there's a watchful guardedness. This man is sharp – sharp enough to know that playing dumb is often the smartest strategy.

The way that he moves is very attractive too. He is someone who's completely at ease in his own skin. This is something that Bruce - a man who's held the world in the palm of his hand his entire life – has never possessed.

But underneath the surface there's something that chills me; that tells me to tread very, very carefully. It's hidden well; and I don't even know if _he_ knows it's there – if he realizes who and what he really is.

I tune back into the conversation: Mike is telling me how he persuaded his Aunt to share her secret Lasagne recipe; it's a funny story.

I stop him mid-sentence. "Cut the shit Mike," my voice is low and hard. "What's this about?" I make a wide gesture, encompassing everything from the empty plates to the laptop on the carpet. "Is this a reconnaissance mission? Or is it your night off from the crusade against us 'costumed freaks_'_?"

The young man leans back in his chair. His gaze meets mine, and he holds it for a long minute without blinking. I don't blink either - even though my eyeballs feel drier than the Saharra desert. Without breaking eye-contact he thoughtfully swirls his wine around his glass. Then a warm grin breaks out across his face; he looks down; then to the side of the room. He laughs - a real deep chuckle - and shakes his head.

Then he gives me the most insinuating look I've seen in a long time.

"People talk, huh? Listen, hey-" he leans forward and catches my right hand in his. My entire body tenses – slowly and very carefully I detach myself, fighting against a lifetime of experience - and gut-instinct - telling me I should break his arm first, and ask questions later.

I stand up to leave. _Whatever game he's playing, I've had enough._

"Look, I dunno who your friends are - I don't listen to rumours," he says, fixing me with an open, intelligent look that says "no bullshit_". _This guy is _good_. I begin to walk away.

He holds his hands up in mock protest. "You heard I got beef with Two-Face, huh?"

I turn back slowly and nod, once.

"Yeah, everybody's heard." he looks up at me with his head tilted to one side – a lock of dark hair falls into his eyes and he roughly wipes it away.

"I know you're a smart girl-" he says, looking down to brush imaginary lint from his collar. I am actually speechless at this. _Why haven't I broken his arms yet?_ A flush of anger creeps creeps up my cheeks, as I stand motionless, struggling to control my tongue. Mike takes my silence as an indication to continue.

"You've been in this game for what, ten years?" he leans forward, fixing his full attention on me. "If you weren't smart, you'd be dead . . . so don't give me this bullshit. You wanna know the real story? Go ahead, lady, ask." His eyes flash with impatient irritation. "But don't be acting like you've got me all figured out when you don't know _shit_." he looks away, his features fixed and inscrutable. Two seconds later his face relaxes, and he turns back to me with a friendly grin. "So why don't you sit down, huh? I'm getting a sore neck from talking to you like this - and this playing-hard-to-get-shit is boring the hell out of me." He kicks my chair out, motioning for me to sit down with his glass.

I never understood the phrase _'_incandescent with rage_'_ until now. By all rights, I should be glowing more brightly than the candles on the table.

Once again, the young man takes my speechlessness as an indication to continue. "Look, It's not even about Twofers," he takes a sip of wine. "That's not the big picture. Come on, we both know the shit that's about to go down – it's been coming for a long time. Since the Clown started throwing his weight around in '08; fucking things up for everybody who's just trying to grind out a little profit. Now every other day we got a SWAT team or a flying squirrel coming down on us." he looks up at me with a degree of insinuation that makes me wonder what he's heard about me and Bruce. _Oh, right - he doesn't listen to rumours ._

Mike's still speaking: "You guys, you costumes – you make too much noise, you don't respect the game. It was always gonna end like this. The beef with Two-Face? I'm just giving things a little . . . _push." _his eyes light-up on the last word and my stomach tightens into a knot. I've seen that look before. _  
_

The young man continues,_"_There's always a war . . . every fifteen, twenty years – you know that, I know that - otherwise too many of us are fighting over the same pie. This time it's Costumes against Old-Timers, next time it will be- hey, you like Tiramisu? I got this recipe from-"

I tune out his voice._ You need to be sure before you make the call, Selina._

I grew up with criminals; I know the difference between those who follow the rules of the game, however bloody and despicable their game may be, and the ones who will turn the entire board upside down: either to get what they want, or just because they _can. _The ones who are genuinely baffled by the concept of 'working one's way up' - or for whom the phrase means killing everyone in one's way. And my gut is telling me that whatever he might say, Mike is firmly in the second category.

Sal Maroni was no angel; he was a ruthless, calculating sociopath. But Sal was a businessman at heart and could be reasoned with - by appealing to his wallet. The young man sitting opposite me, Sal's nephew, is no businessman. Profit isn't what gets him out of bed every morning. And that makes him much more dangerous; it makes him similar to the "costumed freaks" he's about to go to war with.

He was reckless enough to pull this stunt with me tonight. And, if I'm reading him correctly, to expect me to want to repeat our little dinner – without his cousin holding a gun to my head before the appetiser. So what else is he reckless enough to attempt?

_This is a man's life - I have to be sure. _

He passes the plate of Tiramisu over to me. I perch on the edge of the seat, and thoughtfully take a bite. The mix of cream, sugar and liquor explodes across my taste-buds. The dark-haired young man had been watching me with something resembling nervous anticipation – now he smiles happily, and pops a large spoonful of Tiramisu into his own mouth. A little bit of cocoa powder and cream sticks to his nose – I pause and then give him a playful grin, rubbing my own nose. He looks puzzled for a split second – then he grins back at me and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

For a few minutes we sit and eat in companionable silence.

"Look," I say, my mouth full of the dessert, "I don't know what's going on with you and Two-Face," I hold up my spoon to cut him off, before he can interrupt, "and I really, _really_ don't want to know. I would tell you not to play with fire – but we both know you wouldn't listen." Our eyes meet, and he gives me an amused nod, pushing away the lock of dark hair that falls across his eyes.

"So this is what I'm telling you:" I continue, "leave civilians out of it. And by civilians I mean kids too - even kids who think they're with a crew. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Mike?" I put down my spoon, and look at him intensely. I need to see emotion there – any emotion that would tell me I've misjudged him.

The young man licks his spoon and gives me a friendly, indulgent grin. "You care about your 'hood. I like that. I like you, I like your style-"

"Save it Mike," I answer, standing to leave. "we both know you don't care about anyone but yourself." For a second there's a flicker of uncertainty in his features; then it's gone, and the indulgent charm is back.

In one movement I scoop up my lightweight backpack from the carpet and empty the contents onto the table: a small pile of jeweller's boxes lies amongst the plates and glasses. They would have been tonight's haul. I give the pack a shake to make sure it's empty.

"Good night, Mike. And thank you for dinner." there's no emotion in my voice now. Some people enjoy playing with their victims. I have never been one of them.

The young man stands up from the table, dropping his napkin neatly onto the pile of velveteen boxes. "You know where to find me? If you wanna borrow a recipe or anything-" a warm grin spreads across his features – the smile reaches his eyes.

"Yes, Mike. I know where to find you." I answer.


End file.
